"Not a thing, Kinnison."
"She's in it, clear to her neck. I had a chance to wring her neck once, too, damn it all, and didn't. She's got a brazen crust, coming here now, with all our Narcotics on the job—Wonder if they think they've got Enforcement so badly whipped that they can get away with stuff as rough as this—Sure you don't know her, or know of her?"
"I never saw her before, or heard of her."
"Perhaps she isn't known, out this way. Or maybe they think they're ready for a show-down ... or don't care. Her being here ties me up hand and foot, anyway. She'll recognize me, for all the tea in China. Gerrond! You know the Narcotics' Lensmen, don't you?"
"Certainly."
"Call one of them right now. Tell him that Dessa Desplaines, the zwilnik[1] houri, is right here on the floor—What! He doesn't know her, either! And none of our boys are Lensmen! Make it a three-way. Lensman Winstead? Kinnison of Sol III—unattached. Sure that none of you recognize this picture?" and he transmitted a perfect image of the ravishing creature then moving regally across the floor. "Nobody does? Good! Maybe that's why she's here, after all—thinks she can get away with it. Anyway, she's your meat. Here's the chance for a real capture. Come and get her."
"You will appear against her, of course?"
"If necessary—but it won't be necessary. As soon as she sees that the game's up, all hell will be out for noon."
As soon as the connection had been broken, Kinnison realized that the thing could not be done that way; that he could not stay out of it. No man alive save himself could prevent her from flashing a warning—badly as he hated it, he had to do it. Gerrond glanced at him curiously: he had received a few of those racing thoughts.